Archives for May 2011

I wish that I was a pusscat

For Jenny, whose thought this was and Charlie who modelled for it

I wish that I was a pusscat
When miffed I would mete out some claw
When happy I might do some purring
or scratching my cheek on the door
But mostly I would spend my time sleeping
in places you think are for you
Your chair or on top of your pillow
Your pyjamas ? Why yes, that’d do.
Very few things would wake me from slumber
A poo or a pee or a snack
I’d hold tight otherwise
and I’d squeeze shut my eyes
When a human paw touches my back.
I would only eat tea at the neighbours’
The muck you buy I’d simply ignore
All I’d need from you
is the removal of poo
and a servant to open the door.
Yes I wish that I was a pusscat
Then the rules of your societee
Would apply to all dogs, mice and people round here
To everyone except me !

In response to John Cooper-Clarke’s poem “Pies”

“What was the fruit ?” I heard jungle drums rumble
Perhaps apple tart or a blackberry crumble
A conniving confection, designed to ensnare
Converts our Miss Rees into Mrs Ridware
(The old) piano man never a vegetable tasted
He went straight for the meat – not a moment was wasted
On vitamins, fibre, plate borders herbaceous
Watch him eating greens ? No, you’d have to wait ages
‘Cos you couldn’t persuade Hamstall to go try a cherry
Or to veer from the course of his path dietary
Until one day daintily tripped on the scene
A finely turned calf, a cut trimmed so lean
So taken was Hamstall, he came over all manic
His defences were down when she mentioned ‘organic’
When she offered him plates of fruit plucked from the vine
He had quite different fruitiness inside his mind
And nowadays Hamstall is not so carnivorous
He’s prepared to eat food which was never viviparous
There’s a look now that all of his friends recognise
A fruit laden contentment that cannot tell lies
There’s the love of a woman who does more than just cook
It takes more than a pie to manufacture that look !

Four Young Boys

On the occasion of a family holiday

Four young gentlemen came to France
A holiday chateau awaited
Their mothers and fathers and uncles and aunts
Were all simply there to be baited
The gentlemen played in the fountain
They bombed and they dived in the pool
And probably learned far more naughty French words
Than they’ll ever get taught at school
So Timothy, Charlie, Georgie and Tink
Ces cadeaux sont pour vous
I forgot to tell you earlier I think …
“Caca” is French for poo …

Father Christmas Lives in a Hole

For Olivia (Crawford) whose information this was

Father Christmas lives in a hole
But he isn’t a badger, he isn’t a mole
He lives underground in his Christmassy lair
But I don’t think that Rudolph the Reindeer lives there
No Rudy’s upstairs where reindeer food grows –
That’s where you will find that famous red nose

While under the tundra with present filled shelves
Lives Old Father Christmas with all of his elves
Along with his dog (who’s an old Pomeranian)
They all live together, their home’s subterranean

Their factory’s there too where they wrap all the gifts
which are brought to the surface in two giant lifts
and packed on the sleigh which is ever so large
and is kept in a carefully locked up garage
which only gets opened on one day each year
only on Christmas Eve so the sleigh can come here.

Except on the twenty fourth day of December
The one day a year that he has to remember
Father Christmas is happy to stay underground
His motto on the wall of his grotto is found
“With all, share your happiness, that is your role !
“Lots of Love, Father Christmas, from his home, The North Hole.”